Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  Shit.

  Dean squeezes me tightly before letting me go. We both turn to our son. My heart constricts at the sight of him standing there in his Superman pajamas, his dark hair sticking up in different directions.

  God in heaven, please let me see my children grow up. Please let me be there for them.

  “Good morning, Nick-Nack.” I hold out my arms so Nicholas can come and hug me. I pull him close, inhaling the sleep-and-shampoo smell of him, absorbing the feeling of his strong little body against mine.

  I look at Dean over the top of Nicholas’s head. He nods, indicating he’ll back whatever I choose to say right now. Relief flows through me. Dean and I have been so tense and snappish lately that I can’t even take it for granted we’ll present a united front to our children.

  I ease back to look at our son. His thick-lashed eyes. His perfect, smooth cheeks. I remember seeing him for the first time, when the doctor held him up and my eyes met his, and I could almost hear him thinking, “Oh, hi, Mom.”

  Love washes over me like a breaking wave.

  “Nicholas, do you remember…” I swallow and force my voice to sound calm and reassuring. “Do you remember when you had to go to the doctor for a shot, and you were scared of what it would be like?”

  Nicholas nods.

  “That’s kind of what I’m scared of now,” I explain. “I have to go to the doctor too, but not for a shot. I have a sickness called cancer inside my body, and the doctor is going to help me get better.”

  Nicholas frowns. “Why are you sick?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “But the doctor has to do a surgery and give me some medicine. And like you were with the shot, I’m a little bit scared.”

  Nicholas processes this.

  “But after you got the shot, you told me it wasn’t that bad after all,” I remind him. “Do you remember that?”

  He nods again.

  “So it’ll probably be the same for me,” I continue. “I’ll find out I really didn’t need to be scared after all.”

  Nicholas doesn’t respond, but I can see the confusion and questions brewing in his sharp mind. I steel myself, prepared to answer honestly, but instead of asking any questions, he says, “I could go with you.”

  “Go with me?”

  “Yeah.” He scratches his head. “When the doctor gave me the shot, you told me to squeeze your hand and think about that instead of the needle. I could go with you, and you could squeeze my hand when the doctor gives you the surgery.”

  I can’t speak. A thousand tears fill my throat, an ache ready to break me in half.

  Dean steps forward and puts his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder.

  “That’s a great idea, man,” he says. “You’ll probably be at school when Mom has the surgery, but I promise I’ll be there to hold her hand. Hey, you want to help me make French toast for breakfast?”

  “Sure.” Nicholas pulls away from me and wanders into the kitchen.

  Dean looks at me, his eyes filled with unbearable love. He presses his lips swiftly against my forehead before going back to the stove.

  I watch as he pauses to lift Nicholas into a hug so hard and tight that Nicholas makes an “oof” noise. Dean grins and tickles him. Nicholas laughs, squirming to escape.

  I stumble out of the kitchen and make it to the bedroom before the sobs bring me to my knees.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  OLIVIA

  December 8

  “HI, LIV.” ALLIE PULLS OPEN THE door of her and Brent’s little cottage at the base of the mountains. “Come on in.”

  My nerves tense as I follow her into the living room. I’d called her this morning asking if I could come over to talk. As my business partner and close friend, she’s the first person outside of the children whom I need to tell.

  Last night, Dean and I sat down with Bella and told her in simpler terms exactly what I told Nicholas. Both children understand the phrase “Mommy is sick,” but Bella especially doesn’t seem to connect sickness with the fact that I look and act the same as before.

  Since they know, however, it’s time to tell everyone else.

  I sit on the purple sofa, thinking that the house is a reflection of Allie—bright, cheerful colors, fun paintings, whimsical artwork, shelves stuffed with books.

  “The town council set up the time and date for the spring Art Fair,” Allie calls from the kitchen. “They’ll give us our usual spot for the Traveling Wonderland Café. We should put out a few extra tables this year.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Do you want coffee?” Allie asks. “Or something else?”

  “Just water, thanks.” I smooth my skirt over my thighs, plucking at a loose thread on my tights.

  Allie comes in with a glass of water and a plate of blueberry muffins, which she puts on the coffee-table.

  “So what’s going on?” she asks, sitting beside me on the sofa. “You said you needed to talk to me about something important. Please don’t tell me you’re moving to Bulgaria.”

  I shake my head. I wish it were something like that.

  “No. I…” My throat constricts. I take a drink of water and force the words out, trying to remain dispassionate so I won’t start crying. “Allie, just before Thanksgiving, I found a lump in my breast.”

  Allie blinks. “A lump?”

  “Yes.” I gesture vaguely to my left breast. “On the side. I had it checked out, and they did some tests and… well, it turned out to be cancerous.”

  All the color drains from Allie’s face. “Wait… what?”

  “It’s cancer.” I take a deep breath. “Allie, I have breast cancer.”

  She shakes her head, as if that makes no sense.

  “It’s early stage,” I say quickly. “I’m going to have a lumpectomy. They won’t know all the details until after the surgery, but hopefully I’ll only need surgery and radiation.”

  Only.

  Allie sets her cup on the coffee table. Her hand is shaking.

  “You’re serious?” she asks.

  Well, I wouldn’t joke about something like this.

  “Yes. Dean and I have met with several doctors, but we didn’t want to tell anyone until we knew what the plan would be.”

  “Wow.” Allie gets to her feet, reaching over to straighten a stack of magazines. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m not going to let it affect my work,” I add. “I mean, I’ll try not to, as much as I can, at least. And I’d like to tell the staff all at the same time so I have a chance to answer everyone’s questions. Maybe we could call a special staff meeting?”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Allie turns to fluff up one of the sofa pillows. “I mean, whatever you want to do. Just let me know.”

  A strained silence falls between us. I take another sip of water.

  “So, do you have any questions?” I finally ask.

  “No. No, I don’t.” Allie stops fussing with the pillows and glances at the clock. “I’m sorry, Liv, but I have to be somewhere at four, so I should go get ready.”

  “Oh. Okay, sure.”

  I set the glass down and stand, taking a step toward her for a hug because hugging is what Allie and I do.

  She backs away. What the…?

  Hurt flares through my chest. I take a few steps toward the door.

  “So I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  I leave her house, blinking back tears as I try to compose myself. That was not the reaction from Allie I’d been expecting. But one thing I’ve learned in life is that you can’t control how other people react to what you say or do. So maybe Allie just needs time to process this news. Heaven knows I still am.

  Since I know the news of my diagnosis will spread, and since I don’t want to drag out the telling, I make calls and
set up times to talk to different people. I’m surprisingly calm as I sit down with my friends and tell them the truth. Every time I say the words, “I have breast cancer,” something solidifies inside me, like I’m adding a brick to my wall of strength.

  I will not give it power over me. I will not fear saying its name.

  People’s reactions range from shock to painful understanding and sympathy. One of Bella’s teachers tells me about her mother’s successful battle with breast cancer, and a sobering number of friends have their own personal stories of different kinds of cancer.

  “Oh, Liv.” Despite the static-filled phone line, the heaviness in North’s voice sinks right into my heart. “Not you.”

  “I’ll be okay.” I manage to maintain my positive tone.

  “I’m on my way back.” His voice breaks up, ragged and hoarse. “I’m in Pondicherry, en route to Mumbai. I can catch a flight back from there.”

  “No.”

  As much as I want to see North, the thought of him cutting short his years-long walkabout because of me feels wrong. It will not change North’s direction.

  “I need to know you’re out in the world,” I tell him, picturing him with his long gray hair; warm, crinkled brown eyes, and the little red ribbon nestled into his bushy beard. “I need your postcards about temples and sunrises. I want to hear about the friends you’re making, and the foods you’ve never tried before. Don’t come home. Not yet.”

  He’s quiet for a long time. “Only if you promise to do something.”

  “Of course.”

  “Draw.”

  I’d been expecting something like, “Don’t be a turtle, be an eagle,” from my philosopher friend, so for a second I’m not sure I heard him right.

  “Draw?” I repeat.

  “You always had a talent for drawing. In Paris you told me you hadn’t done it for years. So get a notebook, some good pencils, and start drawing.”

  “What should I draw?”

  “Whatever’s in your heart. Whatever makes you happy.”

  I smile. “I promise.”

  We talk for another hour, and when I hang up the phone I’m strengthened anew by my enduring friendship with North. Once upon a time, he encouraged me to leave Twelve Oaks, to take flight, to find my way in the world. Without him, I don’t know that I would have found this life, the one that will always be a blessing.

  The same evening I talk to North, Dean asks Archer to come over for dinner, followed by ice-cream sundaes and board games with the kids. Kelsey is away for the week, so we’ve decided to tell Archer before he hears the news from someone else.

  Leaving Dean to talk to his brother alone, I get Nicholas and Bella into bed before returning to the living room.

  Archer is standing by the fireplace, his hands at his sides and his face ashen. He turns his gaze to me, and the shock and grief in his eyes fills me with unexpected gratitude.

  “It’ll be okay.” I cross the room to embrace him, suddenly feeling as if he’s the one who needs comfort.

  “Jesus, Liv, I’m so sorry.” Archer folds me into his arms. “I don’t get it… I mean, you’re too young, right? How could this happen?”

  Ah, the question to which there will never be an answer.

  “Archer, it’ll be okay,” I repeat. “We won’t have the full pathology report until after the surgery, but it seems to be entirely treatable. It’s not a fight anyone would choose, but it’s fallen on us, and we have to deal with it.”

  My matter-of-fact tone seems to alleviate some of his distress, which in turn makes me feel better.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asks, looking from me to Dean and back again. “Name it. Anything.”

  “You’re already doing it,” Dean assures him. “Just by offering.”

  I ease away from Archer and squeeze his hands. “Thank you.”

  “You need me to take care of the kids, do work around the house, give you a ride somewhere, whatever, you call me, okay?” he says, tightening his hands on mine. “Who else knows?”

  “I’ve been telling my closest friends,” I say. “Allie and Brent, of course.”

  Archer shakes his head, still in disbelief. “Kelsey.”

  My stomach knots at the thought of having to tell Kelsey. “When does she get back?”

  “Wednesday.” Archer looks at me, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “I’m going to pick her up at the warehouse where they’re leaving the equipment. Do you want me to tell her?”

  I glance at Dean. I don’t know if Kelsey would handle the news better coming from Archer or us.

  “Can I go with you to pick her up?” Dean asks his brother. “You and I can tell her together. That okay with you, Liv?”

  I nod, thinking I still have to tell the café staff, the teachers and aides at Nicholas’s school, and several of my other mom friends. It might be okay to let Archer and Dean be the ones to tell Kelsey.

  As I explain the situation to people over the next few days, most everyone immediately offers their help, which is heartening and welcome. While we’re still doing fine on our own, I know a time will come when we will need help.

  I just hope we don’t need too much of it, since that would mean—

  No.

  Just… no.

  By Wednesday evening, I’ve told everyone who needs to know. I’m proud of the way I’ve handled every conversation, with a calm dignity and the assurance that I believe everything will turn out fine. I’m sure my friends know I’m scared, but acting brave helps me feel that way inside.

  On Wednesday night, Nicholas and Bella are asleep, and I’m finishing cleaning the kitchen when I hear Archer’s truck rumble up the drive. My chest constricts. I have to be strong for Kelsey too.

  I hang the dishtowel on a hook and walk outside to where Archer is pulling the truck into a space by the garage. It’s a cold evening, the lights of Avalon Street glowing through the grayish dark.

  The passenger side door opens. Dean gets out, holding the door open for Kelsey. She jumps down, her gaze landing on me with the precision of an arrow. She straightens her shoulders and comes toward me, her stride long and determined. Her body is sleek and lithe in fitted jeans and a black sweatshirt. The navy streak in her blond hair glows like a flame.

  Kelsey March. My fierce, warrior-queen friend who confronts storms and looks as if she could banish the cancer from my body with one sweep of her hand.

  She stops in front of me, her blue eyes glittering behind her glasses. Without a word, she grabs my shoulders and hauls me against her in a powerful, unbreakable embrace.

  All the courage I’ve clung to for the past week drains out of me. My throat closes over. I press my face into Kelsey’s shoulder.

  “I’m going to cry,” I warn her.

  “That’s okay.” Her voice is gruff. She tightens her arms around me. “So am I.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DEAN

  December 9

  THE NIGHTMARES CREEP IN, SLOW AND insidious. Bella is screaming for me, but I can’t find her in the dark, slimy cave. Nicholas is in the ICU, almost unrecognizable attached to machines with tubes snaking down his throat. Liv is on the edge of a cliff, ghostly pale, her hair whipping in the wind. I’m running toward her, my muscles aching and lungs bursting with the effort.

  Just when I reach out to grab her, she stumbles backward, off the edge of the cliff. I watch helplessly as my wife falls through the gray mist, her scream stabbing me in the heart. Then I step off after her.

  I wake sweaty and shaking. I crawl out of bed, away from Liv’s warm body, and climb the stairs to my tower office. It feels like the safest place right now, locked above the world. I plunge into work, welcoming the reprieve of emailing people about conservation techniques and ancient monuments.

  To avoid the nightmares, I stay awake more often than not. I get th
rough my lectures and office hours on auto pilot, trying not to think about the fact that I’m shortchanging my students, that they deserve more than a professor who is only half there. If that.

  I call my parents and sister to tell them about Liv, getting through the conversations by sticking to the medical facts. Though Liv and I aren’t close to my family, we’ve stayed in touch with them since Nicholas was born, exchanging emails and photos. Over the years, they’ve come to like Liv, and they’re shocked and saddened to hear of her diagnosis.

  I’d learned at a young age how to keep my private life private. My parents were rigorous about maintaining a specific public image, which meant hiding all our flaws beneath a veneer of perfection. That brittle perfection was the reason Archer and I fought, the reason I isolated myself when my grandfather was dying. And it took me a long time to understand, with bone-deep shame, that it was also the reason I’d kept my first marriage from Liv.

  Admitting failure, much less my worst failure, to anyone was an intolerable weakness. Admitting it to Liv was unthinkable. I hated the gut-wrenching fear of how she would react, that she might look at me differently, that it would change anything between us. In the end, it did, but in an ultimately good way, a way that made me love her beyond what I could ever have imagined. And then even more than that.

  Which is why I don’t know how to react when word of Liv’s illness spreads like wildfire around the history department. Within a few days my colleagues and students either don’t know what to say to me or are kindly but overly solicitous.

  The worst times are when well-meaning people ask me too many questions about her treatment or prognosis, and I give the same speech repeatedly, or when someone wants to tell me about their aunt’s or mother’s battle with breast cancer.

  I can’t muster up appreciation for anything. Not the stories of success. Not the sympathy. Not the questions. Not even the offers of help.

  Because everything people are saying reinforces the fucking nightmarish truth of what is happening to my wife.